


Polaroids

by Elliot



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Enjolras' POV, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliot/pseuds/Elliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a box of polaroids underneath the bed, dust lay upon them in various thicknesses, some photos months old, others but a day. The bottom held photos even older, from before they started this-... thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, my first (or actually second, but that one is still kept hostage) Les Mis fic. I hope it's not too painful a kick-off for this brandnew account. Enjoy.

There was a box of polaroids underneath the bed, dust lay upon them in various thicknesses, some photos months old, others but a day. The bottom held photos even older, from before they started this-... thing.

Memories collected in a cardboard shoebox.

Strangely enough – or not strange at all, maybe – there were but few pictures of the photographer himself, the owner of the antique camera, the owner of the cardboard shoebox. Grantaire.

The photos capture stolen moments of their friends. Of Jehan and Courfeyrac, of the happy trio, of late night discussions with Combeferre, and drunk outings with Bahorel. There was a shot of an angry Feuilly, and one of Marius after a harmless accident.

But the photos that filled the majority of the box were of him, captured at different times of the days, in various variations of light, of many diverse moods, on good days and bad ones.

Grantaire had admired him. Had more than loved him. And perhaps that dedication, that smitten adoration showed best in this cardboard shoebox of polaroids.

It was those photos that pained him the most, this view upon himself through Grantaire's devoted eyes. 

They hurt more than even the odd picture of him and Grantaire together. 

At least in those pictures he could pretend there was nothing between them other than a close friendship.


	2. The story on the back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Out of the memories collected in a cardboard shoebox these polaroids of their intimate moments together made by far the biggest stack.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta warn: This is a continuation of the previous chapter, so read in one go I'd say, and keep in mind that this is still Enjolras' POV. Enjoy!

Grantaire never caught polaroids of their intimate moments together. Not the both of them. Not in one frame. There were, again, admiring photos of his own bare skin, but only of him alone. The light on his shoulder, the flat of his stomach, or the arch of his neck. 

Grantaire had, much to his frustration, snapped those pictures while expertly distracting him. 

In some of those polaroids you saw the tips of a hand splayed out against a hip, or a knee pressed into the mattress against his thigh. But never more than that. Never moments where he deliberately included himself in those moments.

There were too many of them. Pictures where he appeared to be untouched. Or untouchable. And he hated them.

None ended ripped up on the floor after the first four quarters had fluttered down against the carpet.

Instead they were thrown facedown against the bedcover, revealing dates and times, and, on the occasional back of the polaroid pictures, notes, written in small, illegible script.

When the time on the photographs read a lazy morning, or a bold and rushed afternoon, the handwriting would show Grantaire had taken the time to make the notes, and they often dwindled in size as he reached the bottom and wasn't able to cram more pointers and memories on the details of the now stilled moment in the restricted space on the back of the image.

When the hour on the photos was late or a rushed scribble at any time of the day, the notes were slanted and drawn out, as if sleep was not just pulling on Grantaire, but also on the words.

He could choose not to read the equally attentive fragments of writing. But he did. And they burned underneath his skin, like a rash, more irritating than the pain of the photographs themselves.

Out of the memories collected in a cardboard shoebox these polaroids of their intimate moments together made by far the biggest stack. 

Or maybe he should call them his intimate moments, since Grantaire was never in them. 

If anyone was to judge the photos it could have been anyone there with him.

It wasn't.

But that part of the story was only told by the writing on the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, by now you should have figured this will be a series and hopefully my upload routine will be a weekly thing, but I might switch between 'verses, because... too many ideas, too little time, and often inspiration for other things than I should be working on. So, stay tuned. And thanks for all the love. I try to reply to comments weekly as well. Know that if I forget replying to them I do appreciate them big time and will try to get back at you as soon as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Now, if you wish to read this fic in the original intention I'd recommend reading this again with Gabriella Aplin's 'Panic Cord'.


End file.
